


so this is why i have decided (to pull these old white sheets from my head)

by Acin_Grayson



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Death makes a guest appearence, Gen, Ghosts, Mentioned (Temporary) Child Death, Minor Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, Tim Drake Sees Dead People
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acin_Grayson/pseuds/Acin_Grayson
Summary: In which Tim can see ghosts.
Comments: 116
Kudos: 208





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> You may recognize this universe from my other work, _TDC Unlucky 13_ , though those bits will be edited to suit this fic better.
> 
> idk if this will have like, a plot? it might just be a bunch of oneshots in the same universe _here we go_

Death does not feed on souls, contrary to some beliefs.

Death could, however, sense the lost potential which souls leave behind when departing. If they so wished, if they were bored enough.

Timothy Drake would be leaving behind quite a lot of potential.

Death could feel it, tempting them.

They contemplated this child's short existence. Surely this couldn't be the end? It didn't feel right.

Death considered, accessing the potential to see how Timothy Drake's life could play out if he didn't die here, tonight.

Flashes of color, warmth,  _ happiness _ , all warring against overwhelming loneliness and cold.

The bright warmth won out, eventually. It was meant to last for a long time once it did.

Such things were so rare, in this city. Surely they could just-

Death could always collect this soul later. Eventually.

Death was inescapable, after all. Inevitable.

So, Death gently pushed Timothy Drake's immortal soul back into his tiny, mortal body. The body gasped, an eternity and an instant after it went still.

While Death did not take this action lightly, they were a very busy concept and went perhaps a bit too fast. Death was not quite as careful as they really ought to have been. 

Timothy Drake's soul was still, just  _ barely, _ connected to the afterlife.

And this would make all the difference.


	2. Ghost in your house

Tim is woken by the feeling of watchful eyes on his back. It isn't an unusual way to wake up, not for Tim.

He turns over sleepily to see who was vying for his attention today.

Martha Wayne stares back.

Mrs. Wayne was a frequent visitor, having lived next door, but she rarely woke Tim up. Tim got the feeling she thought he needed more sleep. Which was ridiculous. Tim had things to do, after all.

"What is it, ma'am?"

Her pale face is fraught with worry lines.

She gestures frantically for him to get up and follow her.

Tim scrambles out of bed. 

Mrs. Wayne had never looked so frightened, not even when her cemetery's black dog had gotten hurt fighting off some sort of monster.

What could possibly be going on?

Mrs. Wayne is waiting for him in the hallway. She blinks out of existence and reappears father away, too upset to bother with earthly things like walking. She leads Tim down the hall and out into the backyard. Then onto the Wayne estate.

At the property line she is joined by her husband, who looks even more distraught.

Together they urge him through the wooded area surrounding, and then into, the Wayne family cemetery. 

They lead him straight to the barely-settled grave of Jason Wayne.

Kneeling beside the grave is Catherine Todd, semi-transparent like all the occupants of the cemetery. She's clawing at the dirt ineffectually, like all ghosts unable to affect the living world.

Even though he knows he won't receive an answer, Tim whirls on the Waynes and  _ demands _ . "What is going on!?" Tim knows ghosts can't speak, at least not to him, but he's frustrated with the wild chase through the early morning dew. Not to mention a storm is brewing. The rumble of thunder is covering most of the usual forest sounds.

Actually...

There are no forest sounds. 

No crickets, no birds, not even the rustle of small animals in the brush.

The thunder stops and faintly, so faintly, Tim hears a  _ scream  _ from deep within the earth.


	3. brimstone in my garden

Tim pounds on the wood, leaving behind smears of mud. 

He’s at the back door to Wayne manor, hoping frantically that someone is awake and near enough to hear them.

At his side, half draped over him, was the former Robin. The older boy is barely standing, resting near all of his weight on Tim, who is not terribly large himself.

The late Waynes have disappeared inside, but Catherine hovers near them. Occasionally she swipes her hand through Jason's head, as if she wants to pet his hair.

It doesn't work, because he's _not_ a ghost anymore. _Somehow_.

Tim shoves the thoughts aside and lifts his hand to knock again-

The door opens, revealing an older gentleman in a suit, who looks quite confused at having to greet someone at the back door, and at this hour of the morning.

The man's expression instantly switches to shock. 

He turns back into the house and _bellows_ , "Bruce!"

The door is opened fully and the boys are ushered inside, Tim catches a glimpse of the ghostly Waynes fussing off to the side as the man helps take Jason's weight. They enter what looks to be a kitchen.

Then Bruce Wayne- _Batman_ -comes running into the room, sliding to a stop on socked feet.

“Alfred!” the man exclaims, eyes flicking rapidly between the gentleman and the boys. Tim remembers now, through the haze of exhaustion that's starting to settle over him, that the Wayne family employs one Alfred Pennyworth. 

“Call Leslie!” Mr. Pennyworth orders, shoving past to haul Jason’s bleeding form to the dining room. Bruce pushes Tim aside to help lay the older boy on the table.

“Br’ce” the boy slurs, reaching out.

The man in question has already turned away, his phone to his ear as he talks with, presumably, the Leslie that Mr Pennyworth mentioned.

“That’s right,” Tim murmurs, “Bruce.”

Mr. Pennyworth reappears with a large first aid kit in hand. “Where is he hurt?” He asks Tim in a crisp voice, eyes steely as he opens the bag and pulls on a set of sterile gloves from within.

“His hands,” Tim answers immediately, the image of Jason’s bloodied fingers reaching through the dirt seared into his brain. “But his leg too, I think. And his ribs?” Jason had yelped in pain when Tim had wrapped an arm around to lift him.

The man reaches for a bottle of antiseptic, holding Jason’s wrist as he pours the cleansing agent over his fingers.

Jason jerks, gives a choked off scream as the liquid fizzes away.

“Good lord,” Mr Pennyworth whispers.

“How bad is it?” Bruce demands, having hung up. “Leslie will be here in twenty minutes.”

“This boy needs a hospital.”

“No!” Tim bursts out, running on instinct. 

“What?”

“Why on Earth not?”

Explaining this whole mess to _Batman_ will be hard enough, but to regular medical professionals? They would have Tim _institutionalized_. 

‘Yes sir, I helped this boy _climb out of his grave_ . Why was I there? Oh, the _ghosts_ told me.’

That would go over swimmingly.

The look on his face must be suitably pitiful and panicked, because the two adults move to placate him. “It’s alright, no hospitals. We’ll help you here.”

“Thank you,” Tim eeks out.

The two men continue giving Jason medical treatment in silence after that. Tim leans against the wall of the dining room, letting that support him so he can better resist the urge to curl up in a ball.

He watches as they cut away Jason’s thoroughly ruined dress shirt to reveal his bruised, cut up chest.

And-

“Oh _God_.”

Mr. Wayne looks ready to throw up. Tim might _actually_ throw up.

Jason whimpers.

There’s a scar, fresh and pink and _massive_ , all along his chest and down his stomach. In the shape of a Y.

“How is this even _possible_?” 

“I don’t know, Master Bruce, but whoever is responsible must be truly despicable.”

Tim doesn't say anything, he doesn't think he _can._

It’s not long after that a woman who must be Leslie arrives, donned in scrubs and a white coat marking her as a medical practitioner.

“What’s the situation?”

With the arrival of a real doctor, Mr. Wayne steps away.

The man makes his way to Tim, who has taken a seat out of the way. The trio of ghosts stand at his back, watching with him. Mr. Wayne crouches in front of Tim, his massive form seeming smaller somehow.

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

Tim shakes his head.

“Can you tell me your name, young man?” he asks softly.

Tim answers, because it's polite and because this is Batman asking him, he can't exactly _lie_. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Timothy. Can you tell me your friend's name?” 

“You… you don't know?” How can he _not_ know, it’s _Jason!_

It’s Mr. Wayne’s turn to look confused.

“Mr. Wayne,” Tim says slowly, because if he doesn’t know yet then this will likely come as a shock. “I think you should sit down.” 


	4. i'll leave them folded neat and tidy

Alfred Pennyworth was not a man easily shocked.

This, however, is testing even his level head. 

He’d like to say he kept half an ear on the conversation between Master Bruce and the other boy, while he helped Dr Thompkins administer the last of the bandages, but truthfully his mind was elsewhere until he heard his name.

“Alfred, help me clean his face.” _That_ was a rather dangerous tone.

He turns and Master Bruce is rising to his feet. 

The man stalks over to the table, to the blessedly unconscious boy on top of it. He pulls a washcloth from its bowl of warm water, wrings it out and begins dabbing at the drying mud.

Alfred can only watch in silence as the face of their patient is revealed.

Dr. Thompkins gasps, Alfred feels rooted in place, and Bruce…

Bruce lowers himself down, down, until their foreheads are touching. Head cupped gently between his father's palms, Jason looks _at peace._ "My boy," he whispers, voice wrecked. "My _boy._ "

Disbelief can be a palpable thing, he learns in that moment, choking him as it sticks in his throat. 

This feels too horrifying to be true, and simultaneously too fortunate to be real. Mere months ago his grandson was brutally murdered. Now, here he lay breathing.

Well. Stranger things, and all that.

Bruce was, rather understandably, a mess. The man is in a crumpled heap, holding one heavily bandaged hand in his own. Luckily there had been a chair nearby for him to collapse into.

As usual, it fell to Alfred to make arrangements.

He calls for a car to escort Dr. Thompkins back to her clinic. He sends Master Bruce’s secretary a message asking her to arrange for his schedule to be cleared. He leaves Master Richard a voicemail requesting he return home as soon as possible. 

A small voice pipes up behind him. “Is he… okay?”

Ah. He _has_ forgotten something.

The boy is so quiet, so unobtrusive, that Alfred had genuinely forgotten he was there.

“Master Bruce is merely overwhelmed,” Alfred reassures him. He knows how destabilizing it can be for a child to see an adult fall apart. “He needs only to process this miraculous turn of events.”

Alfred turns to look at the child, who oddly enough looks like a younger Bruce.

He was also rather filthy. Arms caked in dirt from the elbows down, knees in a similar state. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

The boy startles slightly at the touch to his shoulder, but follows as Alfred gently leads him to the nearest washroom. Sitting him on the rim of the bath, Alfred wets a towel to assist in cleaning the dirt from his arms.

“Young man, I fear I have been terribly remiss.”

He tilts his head in question, pausing.

“First, I have not asked your name.”

“Oh, I’m Timothy.”

“A strong name.” He meets the boy’s eyes, taking Timothy’s hands between his own. “I have not thanked you.”

His eyes go wide, and he blinks owlishly. Confusion is evident on his face. “Why?”

“I don't know how Master Jason has returned to the living, nor how you came to find him, but you brought him home to us, and you have my gratitude.”

“Anyone would have done it,” he says in that small voice.

  
“But you _did_ , Timothy. And for that you deserve thanks.”


	5. you don't need no halloween

As soon as he can think coherently, past the litany of  _ Jason Jason Jason _ , he has questions for Timothy.

The boy is clearly exhausted, drooping despite the mid-morning hour. His own hands had needed tending to, apparently, bandaged as they were now.

“Timothy,” he starts,  _ gently _ , because this child is likely just as in the dark as they are. “Earlier, when you said you helped Jason to get ‘out’, where was he?” Bruce is terrified of the answer, even if he’s fairly sure he knows what it will be.

“He was in the ground.“ That’s what Bruce expected to hear. God, had Jason been alive that entire time? If so, how the  _ hell  _ had he not realized? Was it some form of long-lasting poison? Magic?

“How did you know he was there?” Because that's the one thing he can’t puzzle out. How had this stranger-child known that Jason had awakened? What had led him to Jason’s grave?

“I, uh,” all of a sudden Timothy won’t meet his eyes, is looking anywhere but at him. This boy would make a terrible liar.

“It’s okay, you don't have to tell me right now.”

Something occurs to him.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Timothy, do you know how Jason woke up?” Stranger things have happened in his life than a nine(?) year old learning resurrection magic.

He furrows his brow, clearly thinking hard. “No...”

“You’re sure?”

“I would  _ never _ lie to you, Mr. Wayne.”

There's a sort of intensity to the way he says it, that sets off a little flag in Bruce’s brain. He files it away for later.

“Alright. I’m going to call a friend of mine who might be able to help us figure out what’s going on, will you be alright by yourself until I come back?”

Timothy nods solemnly.

Bruce calls John Constantine. Normally, he would call Zatanna, but not only is she off-world, but she dabbles more in practical magic than the ‘dark arts’ Constantine is known for. Resurrection is definitively in his wheelhouse.

Immediately, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.

“Tell me, kid,” the man draws on his cigarette, staring down Timothy. He blows out smoke. “When did you die?”

"What-!"

“I was seven,” the boy answers, and-

_ Seven _ .

This child had died at  _ seven.  _ Timothy was like  _ Jason,  _ returned from the dead. Did his  _ family  _ know? Did he still  _ have  _ a family? Had he clawed his way  _ out  _ like Jason? Was that how he’d known Jason was… returning?

“Are you magic?” Timothy asks, a little hesitantly.

"Something like that. Do you know what brought you back?" 

"No, I just... woke up."

“Any lingering effects? Cold in the bones, shadows moving?”

“Does seeing ghosts count?”

Ghosts.

“Of course it’s ghosts, when isn't it sodding  _ ghosts _ .” Constantine huffs, drops the stub of his cigarette and snuffs it out with his shoe. There goes the rug. “And I suppose they bother you at all hours?”

“Actually, they’re pretty quiet." Timothy shrugs. "Or at least  _ I  _ can't hear them.”

Here Constantine pauses. Narrows his eyes. “With how obvious your tether is I was sure your connection would be stronger.”

"What is. A tether." Bruce does not ask so much as state through gritted teeth. He feels the need to regain control of this situation. 

For all that he detests magic and the supernatural, Bruce wishes he knew more. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so damn lost right now.

"'S a connection to the afterlife. In this case caused by death and revival. Your boy has one, too. I can see it from here."

Constantine had magicked himself into one of the manor's parlors, a separate room from where Jason was resting. 

Jason had a connection to the afterlife that could be seen _through a wall_ from _thirty feet away_. What had Constantine said about side effects? ' _Cold in the bones,_ _shadows moving_ '? Would Jason be able to see ghosts as well? How would that affect his day-to-day life?

Bruce's mental spiral is cut off by Constantine asking Timothy another question.

"How many can you see here, now?"

"Um," the boy turns around to _count._ There are enough _ghosts_ in his _house_ to necessitate _counting_ _them_. "Four."

"Huh. I can only sense the one." He gestures vaguely to the right of the boy, who turns. He looks up, like he's meeting an adult's eyes, before turning back to Constantine. 

"She's the strongest one here, so that makes sense. She can even move stuff sometimes."

"She ever scare you?" Constantine asks seriously.

The idea of ghosts  _ menacing _ this child hadn't even occurred to Bruce until that moment.

"No, no!" Timothy is quick to reassure. "She chases away the scary ghosts. She's really nice."

"Good. That ever changes, or you meet one she can't scare off, you have this bloke call me. I'll help you get rid of 'em right quick."

Bruce has never seen Constantine do anything but complain about helping people, so the not-quite-softness in his tone is a surprise.

"Now," the man clears his throat, his gruffness returned. "Let's see what a mess your boy's gotten himself into, eh Brucie?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bonus scene, courtesy of Lo:**
> 
> In the moments between Mr. Wayne disappearing into the next room and Mr. Constantine following, Tim makes his move.
> 
> "You have a lot of patches on your jacket," he says innocuously.
> 
> "Yeah, I do." Mr Constantine gives him a look.
> 
> "I like that one especially," Tim blurts, pointing at the little rectangle with stripes.
> 
> "Ah,” says Mr. Constantine. “Trans rights."
> 
> "Trans rights," Tim agrees, nodding sagely. Then, “What do the rest of them mean?”
> 
> Mr. Constantine hums, spreads the coat out to show them off better. “This one is for protection against psychic attack. For speed. To improve constitution. And most importantly, this one's for making dogs like you. You have no idea how useful that one is in my line of work.”


	6. I had a night I had a day

He wakes to a voicemail from Alfred.

This alone is enough to make Dick anxious. 

Alfred knows his schedule, doesn't usually call unless he knows Dick will be awake. (Lord knows the man has trouble getting him to sleep as it is).

The brief and vague nature of the message does  _ not _ assuage his fears.

" _ Master Richard, I must request you come home home as soon as possible. There has been… a development. _ "

Alfred  _ knows _ about his argument with Bruce, knows at least some of the things that were said. 

He wouldn't ask Dick to come back if it weren't an emergency.

The acrobat bypasses his morning routine entirely, instead stuffing a backpack with essentials and hopping on his motorcycle. He heads straight for Gotham, not bothering with speed limits.

His gate code still works, which means…

It means nobody has to let him in.

Alfred greets him at the door anyway, because  _ Alfred.  _

"What's going on?" Dick asks instead of greeting him. Which is incredibly rude, he knows, but desperate times. "Who's hurt?"

"Nothing is  _ wrong _ , per se," the man hedges. "But there  _ has _ been a development."

"So you said on the phone." Dick’s heart beats no slower at Alfred's evasive response. He bounces on the balls of his feet. 

The man purses his lips. "Perhaps it's best I show you." 

Alfred waves him in, takes his coat as usual. The walk seems to take forever, nerves eating at him. Oddly, they don't head for the study. They go the opposite way, actually, towards the casual living spaces.

"Through here," Alfred says, opening one of the parlor doors.

Inside is Bruce, some kid he vaguely recognizes, and a man who can only be John Constantine.

The Brit is wearing his trademark coat, mumbling something magic as he kneels by one of the couches.

Turns out he missed someone in the initial headcount because there's a small person  _ on _ the couch, mostly obscured by Constantine. 

“Dick,” says Bruce, sounding half-strangled, and suddenly he’s being crushed by a mountain of muscle. Its warm and solid and _ oh fuck he’s gonna cry- _

It is very difficult to remember you’re angry with someone when you’ve missed their hugs  _ this much _ .

“I’m sorry,” the man says into his hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Reeling from the shock of Bruce  _ apologizing, _ Dick responds on instinct. “It’s, okay?”

Bruce pulls back to look him dead in the eye. “No, it’s not. I never should have said any of it. I never should have  _ blamed you- _ I.” He shudders. “I can’t ask you to forgive me, but please, you need to see- well,  _ him. _ ”

“Him?” Dick is incredibly confused.

“It’s a  _ miracle _ .” There are tears- real, actual  _ tears _ -in Bruce's eyes.

He’s about to ask for some  _ clarification, please and thank you,  _ when Constantine moves, slightly, and-

Jason.

That's-

It’s not possible. It’s  _ not.  _ He-

_ There’s no way. _

It's a trick. It has to be.

“Bruce,” he says in a flat, dark voice. “What am I looking at.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jason is  _ dead _ ,” he snarls. “That  _ thing _ is a mockery of our grief. It’s a doppelganger, or a  _ clone _ , or- or-”

“It’s  _ him, _ I’m  _ sure of it. _ ”

“ _ How _ , Bruce? How the  _ hell  _ can you be sure this is  _ him  _ and not  _ Clayface _ fucking with you! Have you run any tests? DNA? Fingerprints?  _ Facial recognition? _ ”

“I know my son!” He’s not shouting, not quite, but it’s a close thing.

“Shapeshifters are a thing, Bruce!”

“The pair of freckles underneath his right eye.”

“What?”

“Check for them, your average shapeshifter couldn’t  _ possibly  _ catch that minute a detail.

“That’s not-”

“ _ Check. _ ”

Dick checks.

The freckles are there, right where they should be, almost hidden in the crease of the eyelid. Denial bubbles up inside him. “Anyone with a good enough photo-”

“All of his scar’s match up.”

“His medical history can be hacked-”

“There’s a new scar,  _ from his autopsy. _ ”

“ _ What? _ ”

“It’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

He- he doesn’t know how to  _ respond  _ to that. It’s not possible, people don’t just- just  _ wake up _ -

"Nn," the impostor(?) groans, stirring for the first time since Dick's arrival. "B?  _ Dad? _ "

Constantine moves away just in time not to get shoved.

“I’m here, Jaylad.” Bruce kneels at the side of the couch, taking the boy’s face gently between his hands. “It’s me, it’s Dad.”

The impostor(???) smiles groggily.

Dick leans in, so he can be seen past Bruce’s crowding. “Do you know who I am?” He can’t dare get his hopes up, _ can’t handle losing him all over again- _

“Yeah?" he answers with slurred confusion. Y’re Dickie.  _ Wing _ .”

Only Jason calls him Wing in that particular annoyed-amused tone.

And that's it, the final nail in the coffin.

_ This really is Jaybird. _

Dick bursts into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the support I've gotten so far on this self-indulgent little story! It’s why I’ve written so much so fast   
> <3 <3 <3


	7. and I'm fine with rolling solo

Tim is very uncomfortable.

First, Mr. Wayne and Mr. Grayson fought, which brought tears to his eyes even though he wasn’t the one being yelled at.

Now, they’re curled up on the couch with a very groggy- very alive! -Jason while they both cry. Even the late Wayne's were hovering near the couch, looking soft at the sight of their son and grandchildren reunited.

When he imagined meeting Batman and Nightwing he hadn’t ever thought it would go like  _ this _ .

Then again, he hadn’t expected to befriend Robin’s ghost, either. 

His life was taking all sorts of unexpected turns.

Like the sudden camaraderie he felt with Mr. Constantine. They look at each other from either side of the room, twinned expressions of discomfort. It seems neither of them know how to react to overt displays of emotion.

Some part of Tim wants to comfort them. The overwhelmingly anxious part of him, though, fully believes that if he tries he’ll just make things  _ worse. _

Mr. Constantine eventually decides to clear his throat. Loudly.

“If we’re done with the waterworks?” He says, lighting another cigarette.  _ Inside _ , like earlier, which Tim is pretty sure isn't allowed. But also this man doesn’t look like he follows a lot of rules. “I’ve got things to  _ do _ , you know.”

Mr. Grayson sits up, sniffs, wipes his eyes on his sleeve. Mr. Wayne merely shifts his expression to be more composed, doing nothing to hide the tear tracks.

“My apologies. Please, tell us what you can.”

“Well. As far as I can tell, your boy got caught up in a shift of the fabric of reality. Like a fold that got smoothed over.”

“And how did that bring Jason back?”

“Essentially, the universe hit the ‘undo’ key,” Mr. Constantine says. “No idea why. Might not have even been a reason. Like I said, shifting fabric.”

“Is there any chance that it could… reverse?” Mr. Wayne’s expression doesn’t shift, but his voice sounds… tense. Mr. Grayson goes ashy gray, looking frantically between the two men.

“Not likely, I’d say." Mr. Constantine pulls a long inhale around the cigarette, exhales. "Seems like what’s done is done.”

“You’re sure?” Mr. Wayne presses.

“I’m the expert here, aren’t I?” The man smiles, lopsided, and it reminds Tim of Jason. Neither vigilante looks particularly reassured.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Mr. Wayne presses his lips into a thin line.

Mr. Constantine points at the man, expression now serious. “Don’t call me for _at least_ another month.” 

With that, he mutters something and disappears in a blink, just like he appeared.

Two and a half alert sets of eyes turn to Tim. (Jason’s gaze is still bleary, like he’s just woken from a deep nap in warm sunlight.)

Tim blinks, shrinks on himself.

He is alone in a room with his three idols.

“So,” Mr. Grayson starts, the color finally coming back to his face. “Bruce never actually introduced us.”

“I’m Timothy,” he says, awkwardly. He has no idea what else the man wants to hear. “I live next door.”  _ Probably not that _ .

“You do?” Mr Wayne asks, looking confused. Then, “Oh, you’re Jack and Janet’s boy!”

“The Drakes?” Mr. Grayson says, surprised.

“Yes," Tim confirms. "Those are my parents.”

Mr. Wayne's brow furrows. “Aren’t they in, what was it, Tokyo? Right now?” 

“I thought they were heading to the Bahamas,” Mr. Grayson sounds confused.

“No, that was last month,” Tim corrects them automatically. “Right now they’re in Venice.”

“Neat. So who’re you staying with?”

It’s Tim’s turn to feel confused. “Staying with?”

“Yeah,” says Mr. Grayson. “Who’s watching you while they’re out of town?”

Oh! How embarrassing, they thought Tim was young enough to need a nanny! Tim just needs to reassure them that he is not, in fact, a baby.


	8. there’s a million, billion, trillion stars

“I’m too old for a nanny. I’m _eleve_ _n._ ”

Bruce doesn’t like where this is going.

“Timothy,” he starts in a very composed voice. “How long will your parents be in Italy?”

“A week,” Timothy answers, and that’s not as bad as it could be- “Then they’ll be heading to Peru for about a month. After that I’m not sure, they haven’t let me know.”

He wonders, for a moment, what the  _ hell _ his neighbors are thinking, leaving an eleven-year-old alone at home for over a month. He was barely comfortable leaving Dick alone for  _ twenty minutes _ at that age!

Despite the anger, Bruce continues with his calm questions. “And you have no caretaker at home?”

“No?” The poor boy sounds genuinely confused. “I can take care of myself. I have for years.”

_ Years. _

“That’s bull,” says Jason, eyes suddenly laser-focused on Timothy. And isn't that just like his son, to snap out of a  _ post-resurrection daze _ in order to address another victim’s trauma. “I was alone too, for a while. I thought I was doin’ okay, but I really wasn’t.” Jason breathes in, breathes out. “People aren't meant to be alone, Tim. Especially not  _ kids _ . You’ve been alone as long as I’ve known you, even longer if I haven't missed my guess.”

What does Jason mean, he’s known Timothy-

It hits him like a freight train.

Timothy can see ghosts. 

Jason was dead, and Timothy can see ghosts.

_ Jason’s death had not been restful. _

It had been the one thought to bring him any sort of solace after his son had been murdered, that at least he was at peace.

Now-

Now, in the present, Jason is struggling to stand up. He clutches at his ribs, gritting his teeth as he extricates himself from the cocoon of blankets. Bruce’s hands flutter uselessly over his boy, unsure how to help without hurting.

Once standing, Jason threw his arms out. “Come here, you dork. I’ve been your friend for months and I haven't gotten to hug you  _ once _ . It’s a crime, I tell you.”

Timothy hesitates for a moment, before shuffling forward across the room and into Jason’s embrace.

His boy hugs as he always does; without boundaries. His grasp is all-encompassing and warm, he holds no part of himself back.

Jason sniffs, loudly. “‘S good to be able to touch stuff again.”

Timothy has also teared up. “You’re a really great hugger,” he croaks into Jason's shoulder.

They stay like that for a long time.

At some point they begin to truly cry. The fat, silent kind of tears that well up to fill the vision and then drip from your chin.

No one interrupts them.

Eventually, Jason pulls away, leaving his hands clasped around Timothy’s arms. He looks the younger boy in the eye, pulling on that half-grin he always uses to get himself out of trouble.

“You know you’re basically family now, right?”

“ _ What? _ ”


End file.
